


(bare your fangs and wait)

by Gildedstorm



Category: DOGS (Manga)
Genre: Gen, it's hard to let go of the past, luckily magato is there to be extremely creepy about it, set way before canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4156143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedstorm/pseuds/Gildedstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the weak, flaws are deadly. In the strong, they're a work of art, and Magato studies each and every one. He's still got time, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(bare your fangs and wait)

It's that time again.

Blood on the ground, blood on his face, blood in his mouth. It takes everything in him not to smile, grin at this whole beautiful fucking mess of a world that's thrown bodies his way just for him. He bites down instead, teeth scraping against his lips and pulling taut, and settles down on a corpse, waiting.

He'll be rewarded. He knows that much. There are a few left, still squirming around. Fuyumine got their arms and legs first, of course. He calls it mercy, but Magato calls it torture, proclaims it in half a song just to see if he can rile the old man up.

He can't. Old man Fuyumine is as cold as his sword, straight and narrow and honed sharp. He doesn't lose focus, always sticks to his rigid sense of duty and acts like all of Magato's barbs roll right off of him, unable to take hold. That's fine. He'll get him, someday. It's not just words that have sharp edges, after all.

But today isn't about that. Some hounds from the underground started sniffing around, snatching kids, and it's their duty to put a stop to them, just like always. Magato couldn't even begin to give a shit, but a fight is a fight is a fight, and they don't just cringe and fall over if he hits tendon and muscle. No, to kill a proper dog from Einsturzen's kennels takes going all the way, slitting the throat, splitting the skull, wrenching the knife free after a twist that's coiled itself into his wrist on instinct. Yeah, he's learned well, killing these guys. But it's getting flat and boring, and he's only earned himself a few scrapes this time around, barely enough to leave tears in his clothes.

He fingers the deepest gash, presses down for a moment and waits for the flare of pain. There's the pounding of his pulse, slowly calming down from the fray. The edges of his life tingle against his fingertips and he sucks in a breath – the air smells like blood too, warm metal and gunpowder – and _yeah_ he's alive, even if these bastards aren't really doing it for him anymore.

But he was waiting, and he drags his attention back to centre stage, to Fuyumine's stiff back, elbows and arms in a sharp curve, sword unwavering as he points it at the survivor's chest. The dog – the soldier, the former comrade – stares up blankly through the mask, trying to fend him off. Magato doesn't interfere. He tried, once, just to see who they were killing, to spare Fuyumine from _imagining_ it, and nearly got his hands cut off for his trouble. He left a scar, curving around the base of his thumb, and it's one of those that fades out with time. It's a shame. He'd like to hang onto it, and the memory of his face back then, distorted with disgust and contempt and _fear_ , just for an instant.

But if Fuyumine's face was a study then, it's a full on fucking performance now, brow furrowed and jaw set and something horribly kind crawling its way through the rest of it. His hands don't twist on the hilt, settling and tightening like any average person's would. If they were looking at his back, or at his blade, they'd see a stone-hearted killer there, taking his time with putting his victim out of its misery.

Magato's always had a front-row seat, and he can't help but lean in, tip his head to one side and drink in the sight. Fuyumine's chewing on his lip – he picked up the habit from him, Magato figures, except they do it for the opposite reasons – and there might be tears in his eyes, though the angle's too shitty to tell. His expression crumples, just for a moment, and then his smile is grimly relieved, eyes lighting up with something like joy, and the sword plunges down, down, down.

He's a little in love with him when he's like this, edges blurred and made sharper by all this fucking _grief_. It's a perfect ending to a perfect dance, all fluid molten steel, nothing stiff and straight about him except for the unbroken line between him and the bodies he cuts down. He wants to be like him – no, he wants to be better than him. He wants to be the one to put a knife through his throat, so badly that it hurts, burns in the back of his eyes and makes his throat clench with desire.

Then the moment's up and the katana's sheathed and Fuyumine's turning to him, scarred face heavy and cold. “Don't be disrespectful,” he says, voice lashing out like a whip. “Get up.”

He looks away, swallowing down his certainty. It's an effort, to remember the scars he's left on him before, the strain in sparring, the fact that he's not there yet. He will be, though. They return the kids – half of them drugged, the other half made mute by fear – in silence and Magato lets himself fall behind, dragging his steps until Fuyumine's barely in sight.

Yeah, there's no harm in staying at his side for a little longer. There's still a lot to watch.

He's always been good at waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> so this is quite possibly the most visceral thing I've written yet and I am unbearably proud of it
> 
> also magato is a living trashheap and I cannot fucking believe just a single page could make me churn this out but it did and I did and here we all are
> 
> does anyone even read dogs who even knows


End file.
